Turtlenecks
by Absolutelypositivelyunsure
Summary: Damn his ashen skin for hiding all the impressions she'd made on him, whereas her ivory skin bore every mark.


It had all started Tuesday night. She'd drank too much, danced for all night and had somehow ended up in bed with _Bellamy fucking Blake_.

She hated to admit it, even to herself, but it had been the best _sex of her fucking life._

Every bite, every moan, every thrust, had lit a fire inside her, seemingly electrocuting her every nerve ending and creating a fierce desire that flowed relentlessly through her veins.

She'd woken up the morning after, her hair in tangles from his fingers, their legs entwined under his sheets and worst of all, marks painted across her chest and neck from his teeth and lips.

She'd known Bellamy had spent entirely too much time exploring the pattern of freckles along her collarbone, that he'd wasted hours discovering the dips and curves of her neck. She'd been fully aware of how he'd drained every ounce of her patience as he'd memorized the blush that had saturated her cheeks all the way down to the swell of her bust.

Despite all the alcohol, she remembered **everything**.

Clarke had quickly escaped the confines of Bellamy's small apartment, tiptoeing silently out of the bedroom while she collected her scattered clothes from the floor.

She'd wanted to write a note, something to alleviate the subsequent awkwardness that she was certain would follow. They all had plans to go out again tomorrow night, so there really was no avoiding him. But what could she write?

_Had a great time, see you tomorrow_?

_That was the best sex I've ever had, thanks_?

_Don't tell your sister about this_?

Clarke couldn't think of anything casual or smart, or remotely sexy to write. Finally, she'd opted for the easy, risk-free _Had to go to work early, see you later - Clarke_ and then made a clean getaway to her own apartment, trying to forget about way Bellamy's tongue had felt against her every surface.

But she couldn't.

Now Clarke was sitting in front of her vanity mirror, with various bottles of foundation, cover-up pencils and creaming powder lined up along the edge of the dresser. She was attempting to cover up the marks Bellamy had tattooed across her skin but after forty-five minutes, Clarke sighed and put down the last stick of concealer in surrender. Every bruise seemed to be sticking out even more, every blemish appearing accentuated in the morning light.

She wanted to call every manufacturer of these inept products and scream for hours at them for making something so useless and ineffective.

Staring at her reflection in the mirror, she traced the stained redness that felt like a necklace of shame. Her body was an exposé of last night's events and she resented it. She didn't want her friends to know what had happened, she didn't want to see their looks of satisfaction or knowing smiles. But most of all, she didn't want Bellamy seeing what he'd done, what he'd done _to _her. Clarke knew, with absolute certainty, he'd be giddy with delight at how'd he marked her. Bellamy would be even more smug than he usually was and goddammit, Clarke didn't think she could handle another one of his trademark smirks.

She didn't know if it was because that would make her want to hit him, or fuck him all over again (but she was pretty sure she knew which one).

After glancing one last time at herself, she reluctantly opened the bottom drawer of her wardrobe which contained her least worn sweaters; some were out of style, others had been given to her by relatives that seemed to think she needed to dress much more conservatively.

Clarke pulled out a dark green sweater, one she'd never worn however it did accent her features nicely.

Although Clarke had three meetings before lunch, a ton of paperwork to complete and a surgery lined up for the afternoon, she only had one thought running though her mind.

Fuck Bellamy Blake.

xxx

She just manages to pull it off - Clarke thinks, maybe the shortness of her skirt distracts from the ill-suited turtleneck she'd chosen for this summer day.

But really, what choice did she have? All her friends knew she'd shared a taxi ride home with Bellamy the previous night, but that was the extent of their knowledge. If any of them saw the unmistakeable evidence clear on her upper body, she was a goner.

Octavia had been scheming for the past few months, trying to get Clarke and Bellamy to spend time alone together as Octavia was sure they were "too screwed up for anyone else", Clarke remembered Octavia saying one night.

Clarke had just rolled her eyes at her best friend, as much as she knew Octavia meant well, it still irritated Clarke as she knew she and Bellamy could never work. Not that either of them would ever want to try.

Clarke steps into their usual bar; it's old and grim, paint chipping at the sides and dim lighting all around. The drinks are cheap, the beer is good and the bartender, Frank, is so full of cliché advice, he should've been cast in a corny sitcom.

Thankfully Clarke's the first to arrive as she wanted a few moments alone to compose herself properly. She signals to Frank for her usual, two tequilas shots to start off the evening. Clarke drains the small glasses easily, just faintly wincing as the liquid burns down her throat.

"Clarke, what the hell are you wearing? It's like 35 degrees out!" Octavia hollers from the front entrance, wearing a tiny red dress that hardly covers anything significant.

"I haven't done laundry in a while, so I don't have any clean clothes left," she lies easily, her eyes darting to Bellamy, who was following behind Octavia. The siblings sit down on either side of her at the bar, both ordering their daily drinks.

"Sure, sweetheart. I bet that's definitely the reason." Bellamy raises his eyebrows knowingly.

"I didn't want anyone to see what _you_ did," Clarke mutters lowly, so only he could hear, "maybe if someone hadn't left bruises all over me, I wouldn't have to cover myself up."

"You don't have to." Bellamy shook his head, a slight grin forming at the edge of his mouth.

"What? You want all of our friends to see?" Clarke scowls with her hands on her hips, challengingly.

"No," he begins, now with a fully formed smirk plastered on his face, "I want everyone to see," Bellamy breathes into her ear. Clarke is certain for a moment that he's going to kiss her, his lips only inches away from hers and his thumb drawing circles on her thigh. Her body acts of its own accord, leaning thoughtlessly into his as he continues to stare at her.

Just like that, he breaks their contact and leans back into his seat. Bellamy grabs his beer from the bar and lays a five dollar bill in its place, seemingly unaffected.

Clarke huffs exasperatedly and rolls her eyes. This was typical Bellamy, complete with his stony expression and his classic mind games.

But this time, she doesn't want to play.

xxx

She doesn't know how it had happened again, or why.

Okay, she knew why.

Every fucking time Clarke had found a new dance partner, usually a random guy she'd seen once or twice at the bar before, she'd swiftly been whisked away only to be flush against Bellamy.

Every time she'd traipsed to the dance floor, Bellamy had followed behind her, catching her hips in his hands, matching the rhythm of her body. Every touch had felt intoxicating, much more than the multiple shots she'd had at the bar.

Normally she would've been annoyed, would've punched his arm and thrown a few well-aimed insults his way.

For some reason though, Clarke had been silently grateful for Bellamy's monopolization.

Every dance had been their foreplay, every sway of their bodies had built up tension and heat. As they'd vibrated to the music, he'd kissed at her neck, almost imperceptibly, but enough that Clarke had felt his hot breathe over her body.

If it hadn't been for their friends and the many other people surrounding them, Clarke was sure she'd have taken him right then and there.

When closing time had finally come, Octavia had already left with Lincoln, Raven with Finn, and Monty with Jasper. Only Bellamy and Clarke had lasted the entire evening,

Bellamy had hailed a cab as Clarke waited against the building's outer wall, protected from the rain. He'd held the door open for her as she ran to car, both of them already soaked.

The elevator ride to his fourth floor apartment had seemed like it'd taken hours and as their lips crashed together at the Bellamy's front door, without hesitation.

Clarke couldn't wait any longer, she couldn't stand to go slowly as they had the night before. She threw off her sweater, skirt and bra, only leaving on her black underwear as she knew Bellamy loved ripping them off her.

"Not wasting anytime there, princess," he chuckled, closing and locking the door behind him.

"Is that a complaint, Blake?" Clarke called from the bedroom, already submerged beneath the covers.

"Hell no," Bellamy grunted as he entered his bedroom. He deliberately took his time, climbing over her body but not making any contact. Clarke was frustrated and _ready_. She lifted her head up, capturing his lips with her and plunging her tongue into his mouth. They groaned at each other's warmth; the rain had chilled their blood and the only relief came from the other's touch.

Bellamy reached to remove his t-shirt, Clarke quickly helping him with her hands tracing up his hard chest. She skimmed the line of his jeans and leaned to unbuckle his belt. Bellamy slithered out of his pants and boxers with ease and Clarke couldn't help but stare at him, remembering how he'd felt the night before.

Clarke wanted him inside her now, but apparently Bellamy was aware of this fact and enjoyed making her wait. He trailed both hands up her thighs, sliding his calloused fingers under the sheer lace. He pressed one finger against her slit and stroked her folds much too slowly, making her breath hitch. She wriggled her hips for more and Bellamy obliged, sliding two fingers into her. Clarke moaned, but it still wasn't enough. She'd felt like she'd waited the whole night for this - like every minute had been leading up to this, and she needed the release. _Now. _

"Please Bellamy," she whined, running her hands up and down the lines of the muscles of his chest.

"Your wish is my command, princess," Bellamy conceded and entered her, completely.

"Fuck!" Clarke yelled, her legs twitching with pleasure as she dug her nails into his biceps. Bellamy pulled back and continued to pump into and out of her at a hard, vicious pace with an intense determination.

She met him thrust for thrust, making half-moon scars on his back, feeling her body start to shake. Clarke knew she was so close, and knew that he was too. Bellamy increased his speed and then grinded his thumb roughly against her clit, eliciting a sharp cry from Clarke and her walls contracted around him as she came. Her breaths were jagged and for a long moment, her surroundings disappeared and nothing mattered but her and Bellamy.

Just as she sighed, "Bellamy," she felt him release inside her and then collapsed half on top of her. He wrapped his arms around her and Clarke melted into his body, both of them falling asleep almost immediately.

xxx

She repeats her morning routine - untangling her body from his, retrieving her clothes and sneaking out. Just as she takes the first step out of the bedroom, she hears Bellamy mutter "you know, you're not as sneaky as you think you are." Clarke briefly feels guilty and a little ashamed for leaving without a word for the second time in a row, but Bellamy's soft whisper of "goodbye, princess" just makes her smile and forget her worries.

"Goodbye Bellamy." She grins, and doesn't stop smiling the whole day.

xxx

"What time did you get in last night? I didn't hear you come in," Octavia asks, flicking through the channels of their flat screen tv. Clarke's head darts to the brunette, but all she sees is Octavia innocently chomping on her cereal.

"Oh I'm not sure, I didn't want to interrupt you and Lincoln so I hung out with Bellamy for a while," Clarke explains, attempting to sound as casual as possible.

"Thanks, I know I was kind of focused on him a little bit too much last night. We just don't get to see each other much," Octavia sighs. Clarke knew Lincoln worked a lot and even with spending all his free time with Octavia didn't add up to much.

"No, don't worry. I completely understand," Clarke assures her friend. She doesn't want Octavia feeling guilty, not when Clarke had barely noticed that Octavia had been with Lincoln for the majority of last night.

Not when she is sleeping with her best friend's brother and is lying to her about it.

"I just feel like I haven't seen you lately and I know that's my fault." Octavia turns to face Clarke in the kitchen. "I have so much to tell you! Tonight we'll catch up, okay?" Clarke nods and frames a smile on her face.

_Shit_, Clarke thinks. Last night was the final time with Bellamy, she doesn't want to keep secrets anymore.

xxx

They'd both needed someone, it had been convenient, effortless, easy. They knew each other, too well probably, they trusted each other, they respected one another.

But that was it.

They were filling the void, the gap of life. They were seeking comfort, it didn't matter who from.

They were faceless, insignificant people, at the end of the day. She knew it didn't matter to Bellamy that it was her, he'd have taken anyone the first night.

And all the nights to follow could be explained easily - convenience, simplicity, etcetera. Whatever.

Clarke knew she had to stop thinking about him - about his lips, his hands, the way he made her feel. She'd never had such a connection with someone as she had with Bellamy; maybe it was the strong foundation of friendship and the mutual respect they had for each other, or their undeniable chemistry that always seemed to flood every room they shared.

But Clarke knew she had to put that all aside, it was irrelevant and inconsequential. She needed to stop thinking about the possibilities (because there were none) and forget about the previous nights (because there couldn't be any more).

xxx

"I do like this sudden change in style," Bellamy laughs as he plays with the collar of another of her turtlenecks. He pushes the soft fabric down, bringing his lips to her neck once again, like it's just another Thursday.

The marks have started to fade, almost unrecognizable around her throat.

She's sure he's doing it on purpose, knowing full well he'd scarred her the nights before but wanting to make another impression, _his_ impression, on her body.

He gives her a choker of love bites, her skin swelling and blushing a pungent red, sure to be much darker in the morning.

He nips her collar bone, as she groans when he finds an exceptionally sensitive spot, he increases his pressure and let his hands roam over her body.

Is it supposed to feel this extraordinary, Clarke wonders, this _right_?

xxx

Standing at the entrance of the bar, Clarke scans the crowd. She pointedly arrived late as she'd wanted to put off what she knew she had to do. She'd convinced herself that she was going to end whatever is going on with Bellamy.

They are wasting time, it would never lead anywhere and they are sure to bite each other's head off soon. There is be no happy ending here, what she wants now is just both of them coming out of this unscathed.

Her fingers wander up to her black pullover, tracing her collar bone, feeling the bruises beneath the thin fabric.

She'd contemplated abandoning the turtlenecks, positive someone would figure out why she was wearing them this week, discover why she'd chosen such a heavy top to wear when the weather was so warm.

Clarke must've stood in front of the mirror for hours, but she couldn't summon the courage to step outside with nothing covering the maps of red and blue drawn over her neck.

She felt claimed, singled out.

Clarke felt like he'd marked her as his own, but that was wrong. Because she wasn't his, and he sure as hell wasn't hers.

This doesn't mean anything.

Finally distinguishing the darkened bodies swaying on the dance floor, she finds Bellamy in the mob of bodies. He's with another girl and he's giving the girl this look - the look he'd always reserved for her. Is it that easy to transfer feelings from one person to another? Is she really that interchangeable, so easily replaced? Then she thinks, wonders, maybe she was just a placeholder herself.

But this doesn't mean anything, so it doesn't matter.

Bellamy discards the nameless blonde as his eyes meet Clarke's and matches her steps towards the bar. She's explicitly conscious of his proximity, not wanting him too close, knowing it would be too hard.

Clarke snatches Raven, who's sitting next to Finn at the counter, and leads her to the centre of the room. She lets the music dissolve into her blood, the tempo in line with her pulse.

She can almost let it all slide, tune everything out. The only thing she can't shake, the one memory she can't evade is the way he looks at her. She can always tell when Bellamy is focusing in on her; she always feels exposed and _defined_, as if she knows who she is when he's around. His recognition makes her feel like she matters, that she's enough.

And now she can feel his eyes boring into her, demanding her attention. Clarke doesn't want to surrender what little power she has left but still, she can't resist glancing his way. She finds him, like she knew she would, locking eyes with her, his posture broadcasting his unease.

She shakes her head ever so slightly, knowing only he would notice, that he would know what she means. The meager refusal, the smallest of actions setting everything in motion - or more accurately, in decline, ending what had only just begun. Clarke knows breaking their cycle of spending their nights together was something she couldn't undo, that there was no going back.

There wouldn't be any more awkward morning afters, unspoken words or tactless lies to her friends.

But she doesn't think about that.

Clarke thinks about how the nights will be spent alone and she can already feel the unnecessary, extra space of her bed that's much too big for one. She thinks about the way Bellamy's hands cradled around her body make her feel safe and at home, that he always smells of peppermint and ash, that he never gives a shit that she uses his toothbrush or steals his old faded t-shirts after discarding her own on the floor. Clarke feels the cotton sheets beneath her skin and the chocolate curls tickling her cheek. She tastes the stale syrup and the pancakes he'd made at four in the morning because they'd fucked each other silly and they'd been too starving to wait til morning.

She lets herself remember the feel of his lips on hers, his teeth painting her skin and the exact way their bodies joined, fitting together perfectly. She unburies the never-forgotten memories of the man she'd never have.

She recalls the normalcy of every minute, not having to try and instead, just _be_.

Is it because he knows her? Every single part of her, both physically and in every other way possible? Is it because he knows everything she's been through, that she doesn't have to explain why she hates driving in the dark, that she can't stand the smell of flowers or how she always has to take the long way home?

Clarke can't overlook the fact he'd bought the kind of milk she liked even though he didn't drink it, how he stopped leaving the damn window open at night because the noise bothered her. She knows that in the short time they'd been together they'd adjusted their lives for the other, making room and making time. Clarke almost can't remember _before_ Bellamy; waking up cold and alone, only making one cup of coffee, actually making the bed in the morning.

He'd become part of her routine.

Maybe it had started because it was convenient, that she'd been there and so had he, and why not? But Clarke doesn't think so, not anymore, because the only the reason it was convenient was because they made it so. And convenience didn't justify their continuation, although she wishes it did.

"You need a ride home later?" Raven asks beside her, as they make their way back to the bar for drinks.

"No, I'm good," Clarke says, looking towards Bellamy, who's talking to Finn like it was the last thing he wanted to be doing. As if he can sense her stare, his gaze levels to hers and he motions to the door. Clarke offers a goodbye to her friends, heading towards the exit.

xxx

Clarke lets him guide her out the door, into his car and up to his apartment. She holds on to him tightly as he cradles her so securely in his arms, like he knows she might be gone in a moment.

Without thinking, without considering all the probable complications, forgetting how messily everything could end, dismissing the possible pain they would inflict on the other - she kisses him. And this time it's different, it isn't like before - this time, she kisses him knowing this is the last time.

She's always known they had an expiry date.

Clarke tries to explain, to somehow communicate the infinite thoughts racing through her mind, to convey the overwhelming regret for what's to come.

She doesn't though, because she doesn't have to.

They both know what this is; what this silence means. It's the buildup of too much to say; too much that needs to be said and not enough time, energy or willingness to actually say it.

She was wrong before, she knows, that this doesn't mean anything.

It means everything.

xxx

When the sun rises, Clarke doesn't have to worry about tiptoeing out the door out of fear of waking Bellamy. Neither of them had slept, their minds corrupted with the inevitability of their situation.

She brushes her lips at the corner of his mouth, extorting a reluctant smile from Bellamy.

"Good morning, princess." But it doesn't sound good, not even close.

Clarke sweeps her fingers over his jaw line, where she could've sworn she'd only just hours before bruised him with her teeth.

Damn his ashen skin for hiding all the impressions she'd made on him, whereas her ivory skin bore every mark.

xxx

Every once in a while, when she was feeling a certain nostalgia that crept up on her on the darkest of days, she went to her bottom drawer, the one she rarely ventured to and pulled out a turtleneck and put it on, just for herself, just for old time's sake.


End file.
